Dié
by Mhhmmmmm
Summary: She calls them flames. But they really remind her of dancing shadows, of figures of lost souls that she managed to save from the evil monster in hell. She calls them hers, because they are so ingrained in her, that she feels them trailing her every move, calling behind every light. OCcentric, slightly AU.


Do not fold (into desires)|1

First and foremost, there is truth. To be true, there is a false. To live, there is a death. And to protect, there is a threat. You cannot protect the weak if you do not accept your enemy's strength. You cannot preach peace if you cannot recognize war.

You cannot have a desire if you cannot find a fear.

I want to be your fear.

:.

There is no normal.

Nothing is abnormal. The juxtaposition rings shrilly through the cold January air, a mirage of voices call through the dawn's whisper of light.

They say he will be born clothed in black, dripping with death that his mother will be worshipped when she kills it. It was normal, as mutters of the lonely goes. They see the dark brimmed eyes and pale, pale hair cry out in a blend of screeches. No one knows what joy feels like at that moment.

They say he will die before he is born, because death does not live. It wasn't abnormal, as the rumours of the weak goes. They see the mist of black - probably conjured by their own whims - dance from the windows, as they peek inside. Nothing frightens them at the moment.

They say that dark will never leave now. And it doesn't. It never would've.

In the end, it is a girl. And it is alive.

And she is not fear. Nor death. Nor do they believe that she will not become such, but she will never know.

Because the balance is complete, and she will disappear from a little stable of the Milne family forever.

:.

"Okay," little grimy hands smeared at the metal poles with a slight screech, "You can do this, c'mon, you will reach it. What's to fear?" Palms sticky from spit and the friction of the metal, diminutive shoulders set as she readies herself to jump.

A single gaze zeroed in on the third bar, kids around her looped about and hung upside down, they smile. It a routine sight, and the 7 year old was sure it wasn't about to be any longer.

"You're not going to make it." A voice, like a beam, said to her.

"Shut up." She dares to say, jumping immediately a if the provoke will pump her legs farther. Kids hope for her, and others sigh as she falls, landing in a heap and narrowly missing their swinging feet.

The same humiliation burns, she struggles to breathe. A hand is held into her face, and she finds herself staring into eyes with too big irises in the colour of the sky. She doesn't take the hand, but brushes herself off and crawls away from the danger of the swinging feet.

Minutes later, the small girl was forgotten and she sees a man, black and white and checkered staring at the girl with the sky eyes.

And everything is forgotten, because routine happens again.

:.

"Excuse me," a lukewarm voice, "Can I ask you a question?"

The child pauses, the playground is scanned for parents and children. It was a warm summer evening, the park was teeming with joy and laughter. She turns towards the monochrome man, a hand clutching her shorts, and says with a tooth capped grin, "You already have."

The man says nothing, not even the customary grin people flash when she replies. Something trickles down her back, and she steps away.

His face breaks into a sunny smile, round glasses pose on his nose, the sight scares her. And he see it. "Kara Vonne, _oui_?" He switches to French, "_Je suis un ami de votre mère._" (I am a friend of your mother.)

She steps back again, "_Ma mere? Comment t'appelle tu, monsieur_?" (My mother? What is your name, Monsieur?)

"I just want to give you something for your mother," he says, his voice warms her. She doesn't notice his glasses bleeding into nothing, or his eyes darken like an a uncle she used to know. She doesn't see the shift in his cheeks that mirror the image of a man that was her mother's friend that she knew.

"Uncle Jacques!" She smiles, her hands reach out to him. He grins and opens his palms, there, sat a single pacifier that teemed with light. "_Qu'est ce que c'est?_" (What is that?)

"A gift for you first," he smiles, "I saw your friend fall from the monkey bars. Why don't you make a wish into it and give it to your friend? It has healing properties."

"Erm, but I think she's fine and she's not really my friend 'cause I don't really know her -"

"If you don't try, won't you never find out?"

:.

Three days later, Kara never notices the absence of the girl who never stopped trying, or the pile of flowers left near the monkey bars. But she does, however, notices the empty spot on the monkey bars.

With a smile, her little grimy hands smears at the metal poles with a slight screech. Palms sticky from spit and the friction of the metal, diminutive shoulders set as she readies herself to jump.

Her hands meet the bars, and she lets herself swing into the force of the world. Never knowing the shadows that trail behind her.

:.

She calls them flames. But they really remind her of dancing shadows, of figures of lost souls that she managed to save from the evil monster in hell. She calls them hers, because they are so ingrained in her, that she feels them trailing her every move, calling behind every light.

They are not beautiful. They are not warm. Kara sometimes wonders if they feel like death, and that if they were the colour of death. Because that's what her friends tell her, that's what society tells her, and that's what her mother tells her.

She likes to stare into the colour - she names it oblivion, O after her mother Olivia and the rest after the unknown - proud and haunting. They suck her in, and tells her a story, like listening to a love song in another language. She feels small, a wonderful small that reminds her that there is more to what she knows, and there is unity beyond her.

The same way, the flames blend in pitch black, but dance brightly all the same. She calls it an echo - E for her best friend, Evelyn, and the rest for corruption; a new word she had learned that day.

Sometimes, she sees the man that she's never sure has glasses or not in her dreams. He asks her, "Will you complete it?"

And she never answers. She never takes his hand. And she never looks into the world on the other side. In the end, it was not him that makes her answer.

But the truth.

:.

"I need you to know this," Olivia said, her hands calloused from labour and her English unaccented in the French country. "I am not your biological mother, she is dead, and who she is will never find you in your lifetime, and she wishes you not to look for the past. And no one knows the past, do you hear me, Kara?"

"Yes, mama."

:.

One day, he says something new to her. He is dressed in an exotic garb and his thin glasses are round and cold. He smiles, "Kara, Kara. Your mother, she's lying. She is your biological mother."

With that, she breaks her years of silence. "Does it matter?"

:.


End file.
